Author: stephen t berg

  Faces blaze white then fade. Angels weep.A shell has fallen on a graveyard. A grandmother and grandfather are wandering through ruins like spectres. The dust ...

  There’s a rock the size of an armchair high up on Holland Creek. It rests, touching the water, beside a slow bend, down from a granite ledge. It’s a proper hi...

  All loves are bodily. I read these words and they strike within, a deep note of truth. Something entirely comprehensible, when, as a childI ran through green ...

  Love Note – After Walt Whitman I may appear to you as a “tattered coat upon a stick,”*my gate, like a comic, tripping over a rake,my luckless visage, a ...